


Womanish Tears

by peristeronic



Series: Morag and Isla [2]
Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Established Relationship, F/F, also the Macbeths' marriage disintegrates, and there's some angst, look it's really not that graphic I'm just saying a child does die, oh and there's some spinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peristeronic/pseuds/peristeronic
Summary: Lady Macbeth learns that Macduff's wife and children have been killed on Macbeth's orders. From his perspective, it's a preemptive attack on Macduff. From her perspective, the woman she loved is dead and it might be her fault.





	

Her hands needed to be kept busy, these days and nights. If they were not full, she would look down to find her hands rubbing over each other, chafing at wrists and arms, all without her intending. As she sat by the hearth she had dropped her spindle in front of her, a distaff in her left hand, and the spindle bobbed in the air as Macbeth spoke. He spoke more to himself than to her, muttering over reports his spies had brought him, and she let half of her mind wander.

As a child first learning to card and spin and weave, her hands had been clumsy and slow. Impatient with anything she did not immediately excel at, Morag complained about the chores. Her nurse had no sympathy for this. _If every housewife thought as you did,_ she said, _we would go about as naked as Adam and freeze to death come winter._ Her mother chided her more gently and told her a story about the Fates: three sisters who measured out the length of a man’s life by the length of the thread they spun. The story transfixed Morag.

A messenger entered the room. By his appearance, he had been riding hard. He made his bow to the king and queen before delivering his message to Macbeth.

“Your commands have been carried out, your majesty. Macduff’s castle has been put to the sword. His wife and children are dead.”

Morag’s spindle clattered to the ground. “What did you command?”

Her eyes flew to Macbeth’s face. His eyes were alight.

“Excellent!” he said, getting to his feet. He paid the messenger and sent him out the door. Then he proceeded to pace about, not anxious but filled with energy. He grinned like a wolf.

“What did you command?” Morag repeated, her voice rising. A clammy hand was closing around her throat. She didn’t understand to what end he could have ordered Isla’s death. Surely he had no reason to order that. She wanted him to say that the messenger had been mistaken, this had not happened.

“I have cut Macduff’s family tree down to the root,” he said. “His wife is dead, his sons are dead, anyone who called him _master_ or _father_ is dead.”

Morag’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as if it would crack her ribs. Her hand tightened into a fist around her distaff. In her mind she saw Isla clutching her daughter to her side, holding onto her youngest boy who was still in swaddling clothes. Her oldest boy was brave: perhaps he would try to stand between his mother and the murderers’ swords. He would be cut down first. Morag heard Isla’s cry as his blood stained the rushes and saw Isla lunge forward as if to claw out the murderers’ eyes. It was a struggle for Morag to find her breath. Regardless of her feelings, she must not let her grief show. Anger she could give rein to.

“You rash and bloody fool,” she said between clenched teeth. “What did you possibly expect to achieve by this?”

“I have extinguished his line.”

“You have taken an enemy and filled him with a hatred for you that will never be satisfied. You have taken a threat to your reign and given him all the more reason to despise you!” Morag said.

“When he hears of it, his spirit will crumble,” Macbeth said. “No doubt he will weep like a woman.”

“And when his tears have dried, he will have your head,” Morag snapped. “No woman ever deserved to be avenged more than his wife. Why did you not consult me, damn you?” She threw down her distaff and stood, pacing in a wide circle.

“I can give my own orders.”

“No, damn you, obviously you cannot be trusted to give an order!” Morag said, whirling back to face him.

She took a deep breath. “There was a time when you trusted me and listened to me. Now you disdain my counsel, and look what comes of it. You did not consult me when you sent incompetent cut-throats after Banquo—and his son escaped. You did not consult me before you did _this,_ and—and—” Her throat closed up as tears stung her eyes. She hoped they could pass for a sign of anger.

“You taught me how to act with resolve and how to deal with my enemies. I profited from your lessons, my love. Macduff is my enemy. He is the one man who dares to stand against us. Do you not want me to kill his spirit by any means?” Narrowing his eyes, he searched her face.

“I don’t want Isla dead!”

Macbeth raised an eyebrow in surprise. Amusement, or possibly disdain, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “What, are you developing a conscience now? It is rather late, my dear, to complain of my methods. You were the one who taught them to me.”

He was right. Was she now reaping what she had sown? Was Isla’s death her fault? She blinked away tears as she found, infuriatingly, that her eyes were brimming. Now he could see her weakness clearly. She was grateful that he did not seem to attribute it to any particular tenderness toward Isla. Morag did not think he would ever guess at the hours she had lain with Isla in her arms. She refused to let him see. The memory of every kiss from Isla’s mouth was sacred now, and she would keep those memories safe.

“Have you lost your stomach for violence?” her husband asked.

Looking down at the stone floor, she gripped the back of the chair with white knuckles. “Apparently I have,” she said. Let him think what he chose to think. Let him imagine her a weak and feeble woman. Her voice was perfectly under control. She knelt to pick up her fallen spindle and distaff.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said, turning to leave without a backward glance.

“Good evening, Morag,” he said.


End file.
